


Stucky Drabbles

by AnnaOfMirkwood



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Agency issues, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Consent Issues, Domestic Avengers, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Service Dogs, Sexual Content, Stress Baking, Trust Issues, occasional smut, the last three only in mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:59:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaOfMirkwood/pseuds/AnnaOfMirkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCONTINUED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE </p><p>What the title says: a collection of short stories about the world's most heart-wrenching couple. All drabbles will be set post-Winter Soldier with Steve and Bucky in an established relationship. Drabbles exist in the same universe, but do not need to be read in any specific order, unless noted by a "part one, two, etc" in the chapter title. Tags updated as more chapters are uploaded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Service Dogs and Icing Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many, MANY thanks to wingedcorgi on tumblr for this art for my fic! :D Go check out there blog ( www.wingedcorgi.tumblr.com) and order a commission if you have the funds, maybe? They're reaaaaaally swell.

The level that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes shared at Tony Stark’s tower in New York was absolutely opulent in Steve’s opinion, though when told this Tony would snort out something like, “You haven’t _seen_ opulence yet. I actually took some stuff out of your apartment—Pepper insisted you’d prefer the minimalist approach.” The apartment had a large great room containing a living space with a long sectional and a TV-screen almost as tall as Steve and a kitchen with cold granite counters and shiny silver appliances. There were two bedrooms, though one was a little more richly furnished than the other, as, Tony had murmured with a knowing smirk, they probably wouldn’t be needing the second one. And don’t even get Steve started on the bathroom. If this was _minimalism_ , he was scared of what _opulence_ would entail.

It was to this apartment that Steve repaired after a work-out in Tony’s gym. When the elevator doors opened up to the aforementioned great room, he was greeted by the pleasant smell of baking food and the less pleasant sight of Bucky roughly kneading some kind of dough on the kitchen island like he was trying to smash the life from it. Steve wouldn’t have thought that baking could look threatening, but the strained muscles in Bucky’s right arm and the icy cold glare in his gray eyes could convert the most devout nonbeliever. Those eyes darted up as he approached and then moved just as quickly back to the task in front of them, focusing on the dough (which Steve discerned as fondant) as if the intensity of his glare could vaporize it. At his feet sat Dakota, a Rottweiler service dog. She too glanced at him on his arrival, her tail wagging briefly, before turning her dark brown eyes back on Bucky. These factors—Dakota’s intense focus coupled with Bucky’s somehow aggressive method of baking—made Steve uneasy.

“Bucky?” he asked, leaning gingerly against the island. Nearby, a cake sat cooling in its pan. Bucky must’ve just taken it out, as Steve could feel the heat radiating off it.

“Hmph,” Bucky grunted without looking up or stopping. Still, it was encouraging that Bucky had shown some sign of acknowledgment.

“Something happen?”

Another _hmph_.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Immediately, “No.” A pause. Then, “Not right now. Later. Go—take a shower, or something.”

Steve nodded, patted Dakota once on the head, and shuffled off towards the bathroom. He never liked leaving Bucky alone when he was like that; it felt like leaving someone in a battle to fight a faceless army on their own, which he guessed was probably what it felt like for Bucky, fighting a battle in his own head. But he’d learned that sometimes Bucky just needed to be alone. It upset him a little to know that even his company could be detrimental, but he wasn’t upset at Bucky at all; it was all turned towards himself. What was he doing wrong? He knew the answer was _nothing, Bucky just needs alone-time_ , but he couldn’t completely rid himself of his feeling of inadequacy as he stood in the shower, letting the hot water wash the sweat off his body.

He also wondered what had triggered Bucky. His mind ran through the things Bucky was going to do today. He remembered Bucky saying something about heading out to Central Park with Natasha. When they’d first moved in, Bucky had spent the first few weeks secluding himself inside the tower’s walls, barely even leaving his and Steve’s floor. Finally Steve had cooed him out onto the roof top for some fresh air. After a while of this, Bucky decided to venture out (with Steve) onto the streets of New York either late at night or early in the morning when the city was dead (or as dead as it was going to get). Slowly, week by week, they’d worked their way into more populated times and places. Getting Dakota had definitely helped, in both calming Bucky and keeping _most_ strangers at bay. Lately, Bucky had felt comfortable enough to go out with someone besides Steve, usually Natasha or Sam or Clint, whom he had bonded quickly (for Bucky) with when they'd met. Had something happened at the park today? Had someone messed with him, or had he seen something that triggered him? Steve hoped it wasn’t horrible—he figured Natasha would have contacted him if he’d been needed. Still though, when Steve wanted everything for Bucky to be smooth and comfortable, he turned into a _protective mother hen_ (Tony’s words, not his) if Bucky so much as bumped his foot against the coffee table. So he probably wasn’t the best judge over how much Bucky could handle. Still, better safe than sorry, right?

He got done with his shower fairly quickly but didn’t want to crowd Bucky too soon, because that would shut him off for the rest of the night, so he played with the many functions of the shower until he jumped out with a yelp as he sent icy cold water out over his head. He fiddled away about five more minutes brushing his teeth, clipping his nails, and shaving his jaw, even though he really could’ve gone another day or two before he started looking scruffy. Then he walked out into the bedroom and spent an obscenely long time getting dressed. Finally, he had nothing else left to piddle around with. Glancing at the clock, he saw it had been about forty-five minutes. That was a while, right? Yeah, it was a while. He’d walk into the kitchen and just check. If Bucky still didn’t look like he wanted company, he’d veer into the living room and sit on the couch.

When he walked into the kitchen, Bucky had rolled the fondant out flat and covered the lone cake tier with it. Now he was using one of the many little tools that Tony had insisted on stocking their kitchen with to smooth all the creases and edges, his brows knit together in concentration. But he didn’t look as tense and glacial, and Dakota obviously thought he was okay, as seen by how she now laid in her dog bed in the corner of the kitchen by her food bowl. Her tail started to wag as he walked farther into the kitchen, making a rhythmic thump against the fabric.

“Will you give her a treat for me?” Bucky said without taking his eyes off his task. His voice sounded more even and less forced, making Steve sigh inwardly with relief as he tossed Dakota a dog treat shaped like a strip of bacon. She caught it mid-air and smacked loudly on it.

Steve pulled out one of the stools that sat under the edge of the island and sat down, watching Bucky silently for several minutes. Finally Bucky seemed to get it how he wanted because he set down the tool. He opened one the drawers and, after fishing around for a moment, he pulled out a little silver tip.

“This is the one you make flowers with, right?” he asked, holding up for Steve to see. Upon receiving a confirming nod, he cut the tip off a Ziploc bag of icing waiting nearby and shoved the tip on. “Will you put some on it?” he asked.

“Of course,” Steve answered, taking the bag. “Where do you want me to put them?”

“It doesn’t matter. Anywhere. Everywhere. All over it.”

Steve chuckled softly and started piping little white roses around the base of the cake. They were silent for a moment. Then Bucky said, “I never was artsy, was I?”

“Not exactly,” Steve answered lightly, carefully avoiding showing too much excitement over Bucky remembering things. Bucky had admitted to him once, in a quiet, strained voice, that the excitement upset him because he knew eventually he’d hit a blank spot and he didn’t want to disappoint Steve. And Steve would rather cut his own leg off than hurt Bucky or make him think he was disappointed in him. “You weren’t bad at drawing. Some days when I was sick or the weather was bad, we’d sit inside and you’d have me show you how to draw something. But you didn’t really have the patience or interest to practice it constantly.”

Bucky nodded, his chin resting in his hand. “But…I could cook, I think.”

Steve laughed. “Yes, you could cook. I could fix simple stuff, but if we ever got anything nice I let you cook it, because I knew I’d burn it. We didn’t have a lot, but you could make just about anything edible. And you always had a sweet tooth,” he added with a nod toward the cake.

The corner of his mouth twitched up into the tiniest of half-smiles. “Do you wanna know why I like to bake? I mean, why I started back now, I guess?”

“I’d love to,” Steve said eagerly, and then added with forced placidity, “A-as long as you want to share.”

Bucky snorted lightly at him, though Steve could see the flash of gratitude in his gray eyes. “Well, it—calms me. I mean, like baking this cake, I start off angry or upset. I know it shows. You looked shocked when you came in.” Steve started to voice some disagreement, but Bucky shook his head. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I’m…not myself when I’m upset. Or, I am…just a part of myself that I don’t like.”

“Anyway,” he continued on before Steve could interpose again. “I start off angry, but then I calm down. Mixing or stirring helps, kinda like punching something or running laps could help, but at least with this I can have something productive at the end. And that’s it really: baking turns these bad feelings into something good, something I can be happy about.” He chewed on his lower lip for a minute. “That sounds stupid.”

“No it doesn’t,” Steve said. When Bucky shook his head, he repeated it more forcefully. “Really Buck, that’s…beautiful. I’m not just saying that to make you feel better or because I’m _biased_.” Here, a pointed look. Bucky just shrugged as if to say _well, you are_. Steve rolled his eyes and continued, “That’s a very _healthy_ way of thinking.”

“Healthy,” Bucky said slowly, as if seeing how the word tasted on his tongue. He rested his chin in his hand again as he watched Steve cover the cake in white flowers. The white fondant coupled with the texture of the flowers was very elegant, in Steve’s opinion. It reminded him of a wedding cake. Finally, when there was almost no flat surface left on the cake, Bucky murmured, “You can stop, if you want.”

Steve set the almost empty bag on the counter and sat up to admire his and Bucky’s work. “I wonder if it tastes as good as it looks.”

“Only one way to find out,” Bucky said as he pulled a knife out of a drawer and cut them both a generous slice. Steve thought it was a little funny how quickly they went from admiring their creation to eating it, but he supposed that was what happened when you left two men with superhuman metabolisms to their own devices. Bucky’s metabolism wasn’t quite as quick as Steve’s, but it was still much more intense than the average human’s. They could both eat ungodly amounts in a short span of time.

It did taste as good as it looked. As Steve tried to scrape the icing off the roof of his mouth with his tongue, Bucky suddenly said, “There were lots of flowers in the park today.”

Bucky didn’t say much off-hand just to talk; if he talked, it was because he had something important to say or because someone had asked him something. Steve didn’t press, but just said, as he picked up another bite of cake with a fork, “Were they nice?”

“They looked nice. But they smelled awful.” A pause, followed by a sigh. “I got upset.”

“Because of the flowers?”

“No,” Bucky said with a slight chuckle, but it had a tang of bitterness in it. “There was a little girl at the park. She had seen Dakota and tried to come up and pet her. Natasha, of course, stepped between and told her no. She wasn’t mean, I don’t think—I’m not a good judge of what’s mean and what’s not. But her voice was soft. She pointed out the vest Dakota wears and started to explain what it meant, why you shouldn’t try to pet her. Then, another woman came up, her mother.”

Here he took a deep, slightly shuddering breath. Steve put his hand, palm up, on the counter in silent invitation. Bucky contemplated it for a moment and placed his own metal hand on top of it. Bucky had told Steve he could only feel pressure through it, not sensation, so Steve curled his fingers around it, squeezing. Bucky flexed back against him, the corners of his mouth tugging up slightly. Then he continued, talking slowly at first, and then tumbling out quickly like a waterfall so his words bled together slightly and Steve had to concentrate to understand.

“Well, first she asked Natasha why she was talking to her daughter. So Natasha explained what had happened…and the woman scoffed at her. She said that was ridiculous because I obviously wasn’t disabled and didn’t need a service dog, so I must be faking or putting on, and that if I didn’t want people to mess with my dog then I should just say so instead of lying. Natasha said something back. She sounded angry but I don't know what she said; Dakota had led me away. We sat on a bench until Natasha found us and took us home.”

He went silent, his shoulders hunched and his head slightly drooped where his long hair hid his face. Meanwhile Steve felt a wave of cold wash over him, like the world had dropped away from under his feet. Then, a flaming heat started to radiate in his chest, slowly creeping through his veins like fire until he felt his skin burn and his muscles ache with tension. Bucky must have felt the change of pressure in the way Steve was holding his hand, because his head tilted back up ever so slightly, two grey orbs peeking through strands of dark brown hair.

“That’s…horrible, Bucky,” he finally spat out.

“I know,” Bucky moaned, sounding completely miserable. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset over that. I—”

“What? No,” Steve’s head snapped up, a muscle in his neck twitching. “No, no, no…Buck that’s not what I meant. I mean, it’s horrible that that happened to you. You didn’t deserve that. If she had really known…”

“She might’ve said the same thing,” Bucky mumbled, looking at the counter.

And there it was. Bucky still thought, after all he’d been through, that people who learned his story would look at him as a monster. It made Steve ache with sadness and anger and guilt to the extent that he felt it must seep from his skin like sweat. He was sad because Bucky had been hurt so badly that he still felt this way after months of living in the tower with him and other people who had no room to judge and wouldn’t even if they did. He was angry that there were people out there who didn’t seem to have a lick of sense in their heads or at least the decency to keep their terrible opinions to themselves. And he felt guilty, extremely guilty. Why hadn’t he been there? Why wasn’t he able to convince Bucky that he was wonderful, that he didn’t deserve all the bad things that had happened (and unfortunately still happened, as in today) to him?

He took a deep, shuddering breath to relax to coiled muscles in his body. He looked at Bucky, who was still staring at the half-eaten cake slice in front of him. Bucky’s hand was still resting on top of his, so Steve flexed his hand slightly to get his attention. Bucky’s eyes flashed back up.

“May I?” Steve asked, holding up his free hand towards Bucky, but not touching him. Bucky stared at the proffered hand for several heartbeats before nodding once. Steve leaned forward and gently touched the side of Bucky’s head, letting his fingers slide between the strands of hair that hung there. Bucky held still at first, and then he slowly let the weight of his head rest in Steve’s hand, eyelids dropping slightly. Steve looked steadfastly into Bucky’s eyes, and Bucky tried to stare back, Steve could tell. He’d hold contact for several seconds before his eyes twitched away. Then, just as quickly, he’d force them back. It was progress, from the first month when it had been physically impossible for Bucky to make himself look anyone in the eye at all, his eyes automatically zoning straight to the ground when anyone looked directly at his face. Steve softly stroked Bucky’s cheekbone with his thumb.

“The things that were done to you…you didn’t deserve any of that. And there are going to be people who don’t understand, but they don’t matter. All that matters is how you feel about yourself. And I just wish I could show you how wonderful you are.”

Bucky stared earnestly at him, his eyes a little jumpy as he fought the ingrained instinct to look away. He sighed a little and said, “Okay Stevie.”

Steve smiled at the nickname and gave Bucky’s cheek a soft squeeze before letting his hand drop. He knew he’d be repeating the same thing again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and he didn’t mind at all. He’d repeat it as many times as it took for Bucky to believe him.

“Love you, jerk,” he said, smiling. He knew Bucky wouldn’t return the phrase verbally—an expression of feeling was still not a natural thing for him, and speech was the hardest of all—but when Bucky squeezed his hand he felt the returned sentiment.

“Thanks… punk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically what the summary says. I'm writing this to relieve my major feels about these two punks. Warnings will be in notes, if you have something specific you'd like me to warn for please comment (I accept anon reviews if you'd like to stay anonymous). Also you can find me on Tumblr as pen-strokes-and-music-notes. :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Bucky relives a bad experience with a women who thinks he doesn't need a service dog, uses stress baking to cope, but still has lots of self-hate feels. Allusions to past abuses (not sexual).


	2. You Don't Think You're Beautiful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two: Steve still likes to draw, Bucky doesn't think he's beautiful, and Steve tries to show him otherwise. 
> 
> ~SMUT CHAPTER~

_Scratch, scratch, scratch._

The pencil in Steve’s hand flew back and forth across the thick, textured paper of the new notebook in his lap. Ever since he’d unthinkingly mentioned in conversation with the other Avengers that he used to draw a lot, suddenly a plethora of the best art supplies he could imagine (and several he couldn’t) had shown up in his and Bucky’s apartment. Suspecting Tony, he’d quickly gone to confront him, because he couldn’t possibly accept all these things. Tony had waved him off, saying something about it having been Pepper’s idea, and he wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, right? Steve had backed off, with the resolution to repay them somehow, because he was sure that Tony had been just as involved as Pepper (he just didn’t like to admit it). Repaying someone with his amass of wealth in money would be laughable, but maybe he could use one of nice stretched canvases and some of the shiny, unopened oil paints to make them a portrait. He’d never been able to afford paints growing up, and he was itching to try his hand at them.

Despite spending seventy years out of practice, Steve was delighted to see that he had seemed to retain his former skill as he watched the lines on his paper slowly come together to form a picture. This wasn’t the planned depiction of Tony and Pepper (though he was determined to do that soon), but a sketch of Bucky, who was sitting on the opposite end of the sectional from him, legs propped up on the coffee table and metal arm resting casually above his head on the back of the couch. His eyes were closed and his breathing regular, but Steve could never be sure if Bucky was actually napping or if he was, more likely, just sitting there not thinking.

He’d explained that to Steve once. _Sometimes, I like to just sit somewhere, quiet and still, without looking or hearing or thinking. I try not to fall asleep, ‘cause then I can’t stop myself from thinking. My brain spends lots of time in a whirlwind, and it just feels nice sometimes to close my eyes and concentrate on thinking about nothing._

Whether he were asleep or not, the relaxed expression on his face and smooth rise and fall of his chest were mesmerizing, so when Steve had plopped down in the other corner of the couch, notebook in hand with a desire to draw _something_ , Bucky had presented a perfect almost-still life. Now, using his different pencils, he was trying to capture on paper the muscular curves of his calves sticking out from his shorts, the different plates of his folded metal arm, the rounded shape of his chin, the delicate curves of his lips and nose…

It was when he started on the eyes and glanced back up at his subject to make himself sure of their shape that he noticed Bucky’s eyes open just a slit, hooded grey orbs watching him between dark lashes. Steve gave him a quick smile as he switched his HB pencil out for the darker lead of the 6B to copy those lashes on his page. For a while, the only sound was Steve’s various pencils’ tips scratching across the paper. Then, as he was adding shading to give Bucky’s many ridges and dips definition, Steve glanced back up and noticed Bucky’s lips had pursed and his eyebrows creased downward.

“Something on your mind?” Steve asked idly, picking up a white-tipped pencil to add highlights.

“Why are you drawing me?” he asked slowly, frowning.

Steve froze, his mouth hanging open dumbly before he remembered how to speak. “Oh, I just—wanted to draw something and saw you and—I’m sorry, I didn’t think to ask you Buck, damn…” The usually eloquent man blabbered on here, guilt making him flustered. Bucky still had days when it was hard for him to tell someone _no_ , and Steve felt he should’ve been more considerate. He should have asked first, even if it was something as simple as drawing him.

“No,” Bucky interrupted him, shaking his head with a frustrated expression, “I don’t care if you draw me. I just…wanna know why you’d even _wanna_ draw me.”

Steve frowned. “Well, why wouldn’t I wanna draw you?”

Bucky shrugged. “Don’t people usually draw things they find—pretty? Beautiful? _Picturesque_?” he added with an exaggeration and playful snort. But Steve could still see the worry-creases around his jumpy grey eyes. He licked his lips and collected himself before replying, knowing, for whatever reason, Bucky was heavily gauging his response.

“Well, yeah, I usually do prefer to draw things I find beautiful or _picturesque_ ,” he added with an eye roll. “But that doesn’t explain why I wouldn’t want to draw you. You are beautiful.”

Bucky tried to snort with a playful smirk, but Steve could still see the tension in the lines on his face and the way his flesh fist, which had been lying flat on his stomach, was now fidgeting with the fabric of his tank top. It was actually Steve’s shirt and a little big on Bucky, the straps sitting on the edges of his shoulders.

“You don’t think you’re beautiful?” Steve asked softly, tilting his head to the side.

“Well, ah,” Bucky mumbled, refusing to look at Steve’s face. “No, not really.”

Steve’s first reaction was to staunchly disagree, but he knew if he did that Bucky would just disregard anything he said with _you’re just trying to make me feel better_. He also didn’t want Bucky to think he was telling him he was bad for feeling that way. Despite all his progress in the last months, Bucky still had a tendency to doubt or blame himself on first instinct.

“Okay, what do you find beautiful? What are some things you think’re pretty?” Steve asked. Bucky frowned, not understanding why he was being asked this.

“Uh…dawn or sunset, when the sky is all those different colors at once,” he said after a minute of thinking. “A storm right before it starts to rain, when the wind is blowing with lightning flashes. And flowers.” He paused for a moment and then added, almost to himself. “Even when they start to wilt or get all crushed up, they’re still pretty.”

Steve smiled. “Yeah, I think those are beautiful too. But y’know there isn’t a universal definition of beautiful? I mean, different people find different things beautiful. For me, I really like the architecture of those old gothic buildings. Remember them?” he said, and then quickly continued when Bucky started to look confused and distressed, “It’s fine if you don’t. It’s just something about the style, all the spirals and sharp points and arches. It made me so sad to see all those buildings destroyed during the war… And you may laugh, but I think a crisp, white sheet of paper is beautiful. It’s so clean and inviting.” He chuckled a little, expected Bucky to snort again, but when he glanced up he saw those gray eyes focused on him, drinking up every word. He swallowed and continued, “But I think some of the things I find most beautiful are large gray eyes, long eyelashes, a strong jaw and chin with just a hint of scruff…”

He trailed off, watching Bucky. Bucky’s eyes had moved back down from Steve’s face, staring at the space of couch between them. He chewed on his bottom lip, mulling over all that Steve had said. Bucky needed time to process things, and Steve meanwhile, to make sure he didn’t feel rushed, went back to finishing up his drawing. Finally, Bucky spoke.

“You said it made you sad when those buildings got destroyed,” he said. Steve nodded, waiting and wondering where Bucky was going with this. “Well, I’ve been… _destroyed_ too. Even though I have _large grey eyes_ and that other shit, I still got…messed up. So there, not beautiful.” He had all the triumph in his voice of feeling himself right and all the hollowness of finding no real joy in the victory.

Steve put his drawing and box of pencils down on the coffee table. “Yeah, I did say that. It made me sad to see all those beautiful things damaged, destroyed. But that didn’t make me think they weren’t beautiful anymore. And, it’s the same with you, Bucky. I’ve always thought you were beautiful, and I always will. Yeah, you’ve been hurt, and I _hate_ that,” his voice shook with emotion here, but he quickly added when he saw Bucky flinch, “but I don’t hate you. Having bad things happen to you doesn’t make you less beautiful.”

Still, Bucky shook his head. “But…beautiful things, people…don’t have scars all over them or metal arms and they don’t pull on their own hair when they get upset or know how to kill people with any damn object in a room or—”

“Bucky, _stop_ ,” Steve said, instinctively reaching out to touch him but stopping short. “May I?” he asked, his arm hovering in mid-air. Bucky nodded once, tersely. Steve let his hand rest gingerly on Bucky’s outer thigh. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? Nothing that’s happened to you makes you not beautiful.” Bucky still wouldn’t look at him, so he added, “You remember what you said about the flower? About it still being beautiful even after it gets smacked around a bit?” He thought for a minute. “What about a diamond? Lots of people think those are pretty—dames at least,” he chuckled. “They start out as coal, right? And then they get stuffed in a fire and crushed down into a diamond. So…” he ran a hand through his short, blond hair, “even though you think all those things make you bad, they really make you even more beautiful, to me.”

Bucky stared at his lap for a while. Then he finally said, “That diamond bit sounds like something the therapist would come up with.”

He was forcing a light affectation into his tone that Steve recognized instantly. He’d always been able to tell when Bucky was skirting something, and seventy years apart hadn’t changed that apparently. He shifted closer and slowly let his arm snake around Bucky’s shoulder, careful not to move too fast or suddenly and simultaneously giving Bucky plenty of time to tell him to stop if he wanted. Meeting no resistance, he pulled Bucky towards him until his back rested against his chest. Bucky let his head drop back onto Steve’s shoulder, his face resting against the warm pulse on his neck. His eyes had fluttered shut, but snapped back open when one of Steve’s hands came to rest on his left shoulder. Muscular fingers wrapped around the loose strap of fabric of the shirt.

“May I?” Steve asked a second time. A little more hesitation this time, but finally a nod, less terse and more confused. Steve tugged the strap over the rounded ridge of his shoulder, his fingers ghosting over cool, smooth metal. Steve slowly glided his fingertips over the scarred, pink skin where the metal appendage connected to his flesh. His fingertips traced over the scars that littered Bucky’s pale, visible skin. Touching all of the brunet’s old injuries, barely being able to imagine all the things he must have went through for the past seventy years, filled Steve with a burning sense of injustice and protectiveness. He wanted to destroy the remaining scraps of Hydra that still dotted the globe, too weak and scattered to form any real plots but still struggling on in hiding. He wanted to find Armin Zola and make him pay for being the first to start Bucky’s long, drawn-out torture in his laboratory all those years ago, even though he knew the man was dead. Even more than those, he wanted to keep Bucky in his arms like a cocoon and shield him from any further harm. If Steve could take Bucky’s pain for his own, just so Bucky wouldn’t hurt anymore, he’d do it without a heartbeat of hesitation.

Steve’s hand next dipped slightly below the low neckline of Bucky’s shirt to touch a jagged line of angry pink on his right pectoral. But Bucky suddenly squirmed in his arms and Steve was hastily moving away when Bucky groaned in disappointment. A flash of silver, and Bucky had grabbed Steve’s wrist and moved his hand back down to touch his skin.

“No, go lower…” he complained with his lips pressed to Steve’s neck, his hot breath wafting over sensitive skin. Steve chuckled, partially from the needy tone of his best friend’s voice but also from relief, and obliged, moving lower until his fingers brushed over Bucky’s nipple.

“Mmmm, Stevie…” Bucky hummed, squirming again, pushing his chest up. He threw his arms up around Steve’s head and pulled him downward, moving his lips up to meet Steve’s. They kissed, with Bucky running his fingers through Steve’s hair and Steve’s hands moving up and down Bucky’s chest. The sounds of rustling clothes, content murmurs, and obscene little smacks fill the quiet room…and then panting from behind them? They looked up, frowning, Steve already turning pink, only to see that it was just Dakota, her tongue lolling out of her jaw as she watched them curiously.

“Bedroom?” Bucky suggested, his voice a little huskier than earlier.

“Yeah…this is kinda awkward, even if she is just a dog,” Steve answered, moving to get up. Bucky let him but scoffed as he stood up.

“Give her more credit. She’s a smart gal, aren’t you?” he added to last part in a coo, which made Steve melt a little, even if he still snorted audibly. Bucky pointedly ignored him and snapped his fingers, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “Bed, Dakota. Go to bed.” The Rottweiler obediently trotted to her bed, circled twice, and plopped down. Steve got a little lost staring at the soft smile currently on Bucky’s face that rarely made an appearance, until he was jarred by a quirked eyebrow and a question of, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Steve said lightly. “Just looking at that lovely smile of yours.”

He’d meant it as a compliment, but Bucky just shrugged and his eyes darted away, so unlike his friend from before the war who’d preen his feathers with every approving remark that was bestowed upon him. Frowning, Steve stepped closer, his hands gently grasping his hips. “Carry you?” he said softly. Bucky snorted.

“Think I’m your dame, Rogers?” he quirked an eyebrow up in mock-affront, trying to shake off the gravity that had settled in the air.

“No, I think I just don’t wanna take my hands off you.”

“Oh you think you’re so smooth, you punk,” Bucky drawled, chewing on his bottom lip. He let out an exaggerated sigh. “I _suppose_ I’ll _let_ you…”

“Thank you for your condescension,” Steve said dryly, picking him up with one arm supporting his back and the other under his knees, exactly like he would a dame…lady? Woman? He’d picked up pretty quickly when he’d been thawed out that _dame_ wasn’t exactly in popular use anymore. Still, when it was just him and Bucky, it was so easy and comfortable to slip into the old-fashioned slang. “And for your information, I am smooth.”

“Not according to my fucked up memory. I have this foggy picture of a gal asking you why you sounded so breathless. I wanna say you said something about having asthma.”

“Well, I _did_ have asthma.”

“Yeah, I _know_ , Steve. But you should’ve said something like, ‘Oh it’s nothing, you just take my breath away, hon.’ Gotta turn that stuff around to your advantage.”

Steve rolled his eyes as they passed into their bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. “Well, I guess I’m lucky, then.”

“Lucky?” Bucky asked as Steve set him down on the bed, letting Steve gently lay him back and pulled his shirt over his head, letting his palms glide up Bucky’s chest as he did so.

“Yeah. I got you without a lick of charm to my name.” he said as he pressed his lips to Bucky’s.

“Never said—you didn’t have any—charm,” Bucky said between kisses, wrapping his arms around Steve’s broad shoulders. “You just don’t—know how to flirt.”

“Well, sorry you had to settle.”

“Settle, you kidding? I wouldn’t call this settling, Steve,” Bucky said as he nudged his knee up and down Steve’s thigh, just the right height to tease but of course not nearly high enough.

“Mmm, neither would I,” Steve breathed into Bucky’s neck, pressing his lips to the pulse he felt there.

Steve loved listening to Bucky like this, when his old Brooklyn twang seeped into his voice, only punctuated by sharp intakes of breath and husky groans. He couldn’t decide which of these he liked the best until, as he moved his mouth down to one of Bucky’s nipples and teased it with his teeth, Bucky gave a whimpering moan in response. Then he decided that those were his favorites. He chuckled, silently, but he knew Bucky would be able to feel the vibrations rumbling through his chest, which was pressed flush against Bucky’s hips.

“Shut up,” Bucky breathed, rocking his hips upward and keening again at the friction of his arousal against Steve’s sternum.

“Didn’t say anything,” Steve retorted as he gave the other bud some much needed attention before kissing his way down Bucky’s torso, finally coming to rest at the waistband of his shorts. He grabbed the waistband and pulled the garment off; Bucky twisting and raising his hips to help the process. He moved back up and had hooked his fingers under the band of his underwear when one of Bucky’s hands shot out and grabbed his hand.

Instantly, Steve was sitting up, his hand releasing fabric to grip flesh and metal as he took Bucky’s hands in his own. “Are you okay?”

“M’fine. Just wondering who said you got to have all the fun.” Bucky said impatiently as he fisted Steve’s shirt and pulled it over his head. Then, he leaned up and kissed Steve, softly this time, his way of saying thank you. It could be a little exasperating sometimes, Steve killing the mood to check if he was okay, but Bucky wouldn’t trade it for anything. Knowing that Steve wouldn’t misuse him was why he was the only person Bucky would completely relax around. He could let Steve take control and trust that he wouldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. To be vulnerable and comfortable at the same time had been a foreign feeling to Bucky, but now he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything in the world.

Steve smiled back at him, a warm smile that went past his lips and shone through his blue eyes. He let Bucky push him down beside him on the bed and clamber over him, attacking his collarbone in earnest. He did keep his hands on Bucky’s waist, simultaneously steadying him and slowly him down. Bucky usually moved restlessly and desperately during sex, as if he had to rush and get this feeling while he could before it was gone. Steve tried his best to let Bucky feel in control while also making him take things slower. He wasn’t going anywhere and Bucky didn’t have to fight to keep what he had or constantly fear it was going to be taken away from him; Steve wanted him to know this more than anything, that’d nothing short of death would keep him from him. And if past events were anything to go by, “death” hadn’t permanently separated them either.

Bucky rocked back and forth on Steve’s hips, his thin underwear doing little to hide his excitement. Steve’s hands moved to Bucky’s thighs, feeling the strong flex of muscles. He wanted to feel those robust limbs clamped around him as he canted his hips up, pushing into warm tightness. He was very happy, therefore, when Bucky groaned from above as he continued to rub himself against him, “Want you to fuck me, Stevie.”

An eternity ago, back in their little shared apartment in Brooklyn, Steve had always topped—Bucky refused, not wanting to hurt Steve’s small, fragile body. Then during the war, in the circumstantial privacy of a tent or deserted section of woods with hands stuffed into each other’s mouths to muffle their sounds, Steve bottomed, not wanting to hurt Bucky with his new superhumanly strong body. Now, in the twenty-first century with fairly evenly matched endurance and the joys of soundproofed walls, they could be as loud and wild as they wanted, switching positions as the mood hit them. Though, despite each of them itching for the opposite role every now and then, they both seemed to prefer their roles from back in their early days, before the horrors of war.

“Christ, Buck,” he groaned, unable to resist rolling his hips upward to meet Bucky’s as they pressed back down. The resulting wave pleasure made Bucky gasp and then attack Steve’s clothes in doubled intensity. He ripped off his own underwear, the only remaining scrap of cloth on his body, and pressed the entire length of their bodies together, relishing in the heat with a husky moan.

“I live for this y’know,” Steve groaned as he slowly ran his large hands down the length of Bucky’s back and clenched the supple muscle right under the curve of his ass.

“Sex?” Bucky snorted, his breath hot on Steve’s neck. “Am I that good?”

“I suppose that’s definitely a nice perk,” Steve said with a shit-eating grin—one he’d learned from the man currently rubbing up against him like a cat. Then he sobered up slightly, a softer glint coming into his eyes, “But that’s not what I meant. I live for just being able to wake up and know you’re there, that I could reach out and touch you or say your name and hear your answer. I live for you being here.”

“Sap.” Bucky said, but kissed him in a way that said _thank you_.

“Jerk,” Steve said, smiling.

“Been called worse,” Bucky shrugged. “Now will you get on with it already? ‘Cause if not, I may just have to finish up and you can shift for yourself.”

“Always so impatient,” Steve _tsk_ ’d as Bucky rolled off him so he could grab a bottle of lubricant from the nightstand. Bless the person who invented this stuff—it was a lot better than Vaseline or soap or spit. He squeezed a generous amount onto the fingers of one hand while he used the other to roll Bucky onto his stomach. Like the little shit he was, Bucky poked his butt up into the air, smirking cockily over his shoulder. Of course, that smirk faltered when one of Steve’s fingers traced the line of his puckered entrance and slipped inside.

“Mmmm…” he hummed as Steve moved his finger back and forth before slowly pushing in a second appendage, scissoring and plunging deep. “Ahh, c’mon Stevie, m’ready.”

“Not yet,” Steve murmured with a slight frown as he pushed a third finger into Bucky’s entrance. An unhappy memory made a crease form between his eyebrows. It had been one of the first times they’d had sex since Bucky had come back to him after the helicarrier incident, since he’d started the slow and painful process of recovery, since he’d gotten inklings of feelings and memories they’d shared before and decided he wanted them again. It had seemed perfect, having Bucky backing in his arms, faster and rougher and scarred, but still Bucky. At least, until the aftermath, when Steve had grabbed a tissue to clean some of his mess off Bucky’s backside and found his entrance bleeding. And that was when Steve had really realized that if he was hurting Bucky, Bucky wouldn’t tell him, and that _scared_ him. Sure, things were better now. If Bucky was unhappy or uncomfortable with something, he’d _usually_ say so; Steve could trust him on that. But that still didn’t erase his fear of Bucky, with his forcefully learned don’t-say-no mentality, getting swept up in the moment and letting Steve hurt him.

Steve leaned down close and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s nose, while Bucky looked at him with confused gray eyes, having caught his sobered tone. “Promise you’ll tell me if I hurt you, all right?” Bucky sighed slightly but gave him a small smile and nodded once, his mind going back along the same direction as Steve’s. He never did it intentionally. It was just ingrained in him that he was to endure, not beg for relief…but then he’d shake himself slightly and remember that Steve wasn’t the shadowy faced Hydra members whose features or names he couldn’t always place but whose actions to him were infused into him like the scars the littered his skin or the metal in his shoulder where bone and flesh used to be. He didn’t have to beg Steve for mercy. He could just ask him to stop and he would, without even requesting a reason.

Reassured, Steve smiled, a small smile that shone more in his eyes than on his lips, and pulled his fingers out. Bucky whined at the sudden emptiness as Steve positioned himself at his entrance, rubbing more lubricant from the bottle onto his dick, which had been neglected for a while and was throbbing for the familiar tightness waiting for it. But, as he was about to line up, Bucky quietly said, “Hey Stevie?”

“Yeah, Buck?” he said, instantly sitting back up. The corners of Bucky’s lips twitched upward at that before he made his request in a mumbling tone.

“Mind if I face you?”

Again Steve smiled before grabbing Bucky’s hips and rolling him over. He leaned down and kissed him, passionately, trying to say everything that was difficult for him to put into words sometimes—Bucky was the only person who could get him so tongue-tied. “Whatever you want, doll.”

“Who said I was a doll?”

“I did. Just now.”

Bucky opened his mouth to retort but it fled from his mind as Steve pushed slowly into him until he was buried down to the hill. Then he stilled, waiting for Bucky to adjust, even though the tight warm currently surrounding him felt as euphoric as the first breath of air he’d taken after Erskine’s experiment, unhindered by asthma for once in his life.

“Steve,” Bucky groaned from underneath him, biting his bottom lip, “Steve, you gotta fucking move all ready. I’m dying down here.”

Steve snorted and slid almost completely out before thrusting back in. He repeated the process, moving harder and faster, as Bucky spasmed every time Steve jabbed his prostate.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Steve said. “So damn beautiful.”

“You really think that Stevie?” he asked, his speech punctuated with gasps from each thrust.

“Yes,” he answered instantly, breathlessly, leaning down to press sloppy, heated kisses along Bucky’s collarbone. “Every inch of you. Wish you could see yourself through my eyes right now; you’re taking my breath away.”

“You sure you aren’t just saying that ‘cause you’re fucking me six ways to Sunday?”

“You take my breath away every couple minutes,” Steve said, still dotting kisses along Bucky’s normally milky pale but now flushed skin, paying extra attention to the little patches of scarred tissue. “But I won’t deny you’ve got the most stunning look on your face right now.”

He moved his head up and connected their mouths while he continued to pump in and out of the comely form beneath him, feeling his body shake with tension. He was close, and Bucky was close, if the sounds he were making were anything to go by. He’d left coherent sentences behind and was breathing broken fragments of, “harder, Stevie _harder_ ,” and “oh, oh god, Steve, ahh.” Steve wasn’t much better off, completely focused on the tightness around his cock and those flickering grey eyes, quivering lips, flushed cheeks…

“Beautiful,” he groaned, and groaned it over and over again, sloppily kissing whatever part of Bucky was currently nearest to his lips. “Bucky…could look at you forever…” he breathed against parted lips, eyes barely a few inches apart. They stared back at him earnestly, not darting away, not looking down in submission, but staring back in all their crystalline beautiful. Steve could stay like this forever. Then, those eyes rolled back and eyelids fluttered shut.

“Oh fuck, Steve, Steve,” he cried, legs clenched tightly around Steve’s middle and ass even tighter around his dick. He finished with a loud cry and somewhere in the back of Steve’s cloudy brain he thought of snickering—Bucky had always been a “screamer,” which had caused some difficulties back in their crowded apartment building with paper-thin walls and the even closer quarters of a war camp. Back then, Bucky had bit a pillow or they’d manage to sneak away to a particularly secluded part of forest (and even then he’d have to bite his tongue a little). Now, Bucky could be as vocal as he pleased, and Steve loved every sound he made.

Even in the warm glow of his orgasm, warm cum splayed across their stomachs, he still gripped Steve tightly with his legs, which would spasm with every thrust as Steve continued to move inside him, fast but not quite as hard—he didn’t want to hurt Bucky in his sensitive, overstimulated, post-climax state. Then, in what always felt as a sudden shock, he too came, both of them groaning. They stayed as they were for several minutes, both panting and trembling. Bucky whined when Steve finally slide out of him and fell down next to him on his side. He stared at Bucky’s sweaty pink face, reaching up to move the splayed strands of hair from his face. His mouth was open and his eyes were closed, looking completely spent.

“That was…different,” Steve finally said, his voice breathy. Bucky's eyes flickered open and a concerned look came to his features. Steve quickly added, “A good different. I feel so worn out…but I like it.” Sure orgasms were nice, but damn this was a good one. He felt almost like he’d released a part of himself and he was exhausted, but hell he would’ve done it again in a heartbeat, if Bucky didn’t look equally as used up.

Bucky gave a half-hearted smirk. “Well, glad I’ve gotta satisfied customer,” he said patronizingly. Steve rolled his eyes and forced himself to get up, going to their bathroom and getting a wet washcloth. He wiped the aftermath off himself and proceeded to clean Bucky before climbing back in bed with him. He wasn’t usually one for midday naps but he’d make an exception, especially if it meant holding Bucky against him a little while longer. Bucky let him pull him close against his chest and throw the covers over their bodies, but his eyes remained open yet unfocused, a slight frown on his face. After several minutes he said, “Stevie…you really…never mind.” He shook his head slightly and tried to look away, but Steve reached up and cupped his face.

“What’s on your mind, Bucky?” he asked, frowning.

“Did…did you really mean all that?” he asked quietly. It took Steve’s foggy brain a second to make the connection, but when he did he immediately leaned forward and kissed Bucky, softly and sweetly.

“Of course I did,” he answered. “I always will. You are beautiful, inside and out.”

He expected a witty remark like Bucky usually used to defuse tense or emotional situations, but instead he gave Steve a grateful half-smile before letting his head rest on Steve’s shoulder, eyelids starting to droop. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“Love you, Buck.”

So quietly that Steve almost didn’t catch it, Bucky murmured, “You too, punk.”

It wasn’t an implicit _I love you_ or some long epiphany of feeling. But, in the midst of good and bad days, days where he could make full sentences describing how he felt and days when he felt the need to ask permission before he untangled himself from bed to go to the bathroom, it was progress for Bucky. Every day seemed to present some new challenge, but Bucky felt a little less terrified knowing _the man from the bridge_ would be there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Lots of self-hate feelings for Bucky regarding his physical appearance and his past, sexual content, and mentions of Bucky's occasional inabilities to say "no." 
> 
> It's been a little while, and for those of you following my other story, Miles Lamia, it's been even longer. I'm so sorry. I have this to say in my defense: 1) junior year of high school, 'nuff said; 2) I've had several flares with my lupus and arthritis; and 3) I hurt my ankle pretty badly and was in a wheelchair for a week, a boot for about three weeks. I was obviously stuck in bed a lot more than usual and this would seem like the perfect opportunity to catch back up on writing. But alas, I also have anemia, and medicines that make me sleepy. I was so worn out just by the simple task of going to school for seven hours that I'd go home and crash, wake up long enough to eat, do homework, and shower, and then crash again with my sweet little furbaby dog, Gigi. But this chapter is up, and I've made major headway with chapter two of Miles Lamia. I'm hoping to have it up by my birthday next Thursday (turning 17, woohoo). I've also got an idea for a third chapter of Stucky Drabbles and a few paragraphs written. So hopefully it'll be a quicker update than this one. :) 
> 
> Thanks for the continued support, the comments and kudos and bookmarks. You all are amazing.
> 
> EDIT: (November 10, 2014) Went back and fixed some grammar and spelling errors I saw. If you see anymore, please tell me in the comments!


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